 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
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No. VII. “LET US DRINK TO THE BARDS.”
Let us drink to the Bards of our own native land,
The inspired, the humane, and the brave,
Who have touched the loud lyre with so mighty a hand,
That it thrills through the soul of the slave;
In the army of truth they have marched in the van,
A gifted and glorious band:—
Come, bring me the wine, let me drink like a man,
To the Bards of my dear native land.
The inspired, the humane, and the brave,
Who have touched the loud lyre with so mighty a hand,
That it thrills through the soul of the slave;
In the army of truth they have marched in the van,
A gifted and glorious band:—
Come, bring me the wine, let me drink like a man,
To the Bards of my dear native land.
When Shakespeare came down, like a god from the skies,
Such a light from his spirit he cast,
That he startled the world into love and surprise,
And quenched many stars of the past:
Every passion that sleeps in the depths of the mind
He hath melted and moved at command;—
Let us drink to the best of our country and kind,—
The Bards of our dear native land.
Such a light from his spirit he cast,
That he startled the world into love and surprise,
And quenched many stars of the past:
Every passion that sleeps in the depths of the mind
He hath melted and moved at command;—
Let us drink to the best of our country and kind,—
The Bards of our dear native land.
Then Milton arose, like a rocket of fire,
When the nation was buried in gloom,
And the garland he wreathed with the strings of the lyre,
Wore the hues of celestial bloom:
For freedom and glory, for virtue and truth,
He flung the proud tones from his hand:—
Let us drink to the sons of perpetual youth,—
The Bards of our dear native land.
When the nation was buried in gloom,
And the garland he wreathed with the strings of the lyre,
Wore the hues of celestial bloom:
For freedom and glory, for virtue and truth,
He flung the proud tones from his hand:—
177
The Bards of our dear native land.
There was Burns, who hath hallowed the mountains and streams,—
There was Byron, the stern and the strong;
There was Shelley, who lived in the purest of dreams,
There is Moore, the unshackled in song;
All, all have combined, with a wonderful power,
The heart and the soul to expand:—
Let us drink to the heirs of a heavenly dower,—
The Bards of our dear native land.
There was Byron, the stern and the strong;
There was Shelley, who lived in the purest of dreams,
There is Moore, the unshackled in song;
All, all have combined, with a wonderful power,
The heart and the soul to expand:—
Let us drink to the heirs of a heavenly dower,—
The Bards of our dear native land.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |